


Call me Dee

by RubyLipsStarryEyes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyLipsStarryEyes/pseuds/RubyLipsStarryEyes
Summary: Chelsea is early to her death. Death sends her back.





	1. Chapter 1

Death wasn’t what I expected, and I don’t mean how I died, though that was weird too. I mean _ Death _ . She looked like someone you’d find in a bookstore on a Friday night. Petite, with glasses and dark hair. Her eyes were a little far apart, and her lipstick was smudged when I met her for the first time. She looked up from the paperback she’d been reading and looked… Surprised.

“You’re early.” She cocked her head and blinked a few times, her brown eyes surveying me carefully. 

“Who are you?” I looked around and didn’t see much, beyond a stereotypical waiting room. She was sitting at the desk, looking slightly bored until I cleared my throat. 

She tapped a finger to the nametag pinned to her blue sweater, and there it was in black and white. “Death.” 

“You can call me Dee though. It’s a little less dramatic.” She reached for a piece of paper on the desk before her. “Lets see. Chelsea Morgan, date of birth March 16, 1990. Date of death October 23, 2019.” 

“But today is September 9th, 2017.” I looked at her, confused as to what she was implying. 

“Like I said. You’re early.” 

She stood, and came around the desk to face me. She was maybe an inch taller, and her hair was pulled back into a messy pony-tail. If I had seen her on the street, I would have assumed she was about my age, and the kind of woman that worked in an office somewhere, in her conservative sweater and knee-length skirt. Though, I supposed this was an office, or at least it looked like it. 

“So… What does that mean?” I was vaguely uncomfortable at the look she was giving me. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never had one come early.” She tugged on the end of her pony-tail, and jumped up to sit on the edge of the desk. “I mean, my immediate instinct is to send you right back. No harm, no foul. But…”

“But…?” 

“But I don’t know if you’ll remember this or not.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, and continued to stare at me in that unnerving way. 

“I mean, I’ll probably chalk it up to a weird dream. I have lots of those. And the last thing I remember was going to bed anyway.” 

She shrugged. “Okay I’m cool with that. See you in two years!” 

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bed with my dog Mellie hogging the covers, and my alarm going off, telling me to get up and get ready for work. Talk about a weird dream. I got up, took Mellie out, and went to work. It was just like any other day. I came home with Thai carry-out, and spent the evening watching Netflix after walking Mellie. I went to bed thinking of the weird dream from the night before. 

And then I met Death the  _ second  _ time. 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

“You again?” Her sweater was green today, and it was a different paperback, but it was definitely the same woman behind the desk. 

“Dee?” I looked around. Same office. Same desk. “What the hell?” 

She snatched the paper from the desk and recited, “Chelsea Morgan, date of birth March 16, 1990. Date of death October 23, 2019.” She looked up at me over the top of the sheet.

“Okay…” 

“I’m not sure I understand.” I shook my head. “This is one hell of a weird dream.” 

“Well it appears sending you back worked fine, and you convinced yourself it was a dream… But why did you come back?” 

“What do you mean, ‘why did I come back?’ It’s not like I had a choice! Aren’t you the one that’s supposed to come around with a scythe or something and take me to… Whatever comes next?” I crossed my arms, irritated that she was staring at me again.

“Yeah no. I’m not even sure where the scythe thing came from. I’m just the receptionist.” She shrugged. 

“Then what’s with the skeleton and black and fear of speaking your name all about?” 

“Dude. Receptionists get blamed for everything. No coffee? Receptionist. Late appointment? Receptionist. You got caught doing something and crushed? Receptionist. I could keep going.” She pulled on the end of her pony-tail.

“Did I just get called ‘dude” by Death?” This dream was getting weirder. 

“Kinda why I go by Dee now. It’s a bit less… Gothic?” She grinned. 

“Uh.. okay.” I looked around again. “So… Are you just going to send me back again? 

“I mean… I don’t see why not. Doesn’t hurt me.”

Okay… Then I guess I’ll see you in two years?” 

“Yep. BYE!” 

Back in bed. Mellie hogging the covers, and the alarm going off. I sighed. I was having really freakin weird dreams lately. 


End file.
